


Strip Down, Lay Back

by Swindlefingers



Series: Ellara and Samson [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/pseuds/Swindlefingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson spends all day working in the sun, so his Inquisitor pops by to give him a massage with a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strip Down, Lay Back

**Author's Note:**

> **Explanation of dubcon tag:** Samson is a prisoner of the Inquisition. Although the Inquisitor and he are in a relationship, and she would respect his withdrawal of consent, and he feels that he can say "no", there is an inherent imbalance of power in the relationship that could be perceived as dubious consent. Better safe than sorry.

“Strip. Lay face down on the bed,” the Inquisitor purrs. Not even in his room for five minutes, past all the pleasantries, and she’s ordering him about with sweetness.

“If I had a sovereign for every time I’d heard that,” Samson pulls his cotton jacket off over his head.

“You’d be three sovereigns richer?”

“How do-”

“You told me the stories, Sam,” She leaves a kiss on his shoulder as she pushes him towards the bed.

“You doing this for everyone on the work crew? Krem expecting you after this?”

Her eyes widen with feigned realization, “What a good idea!” She makes for the door of his quarters.

She laughs as he grabs her wrist, halfheartedly struggling to reach the doorknob as he pulls her back to him. He chuckles. She spins around when she’s close enough, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“No, just you,” she admits. Her kiss on his mouth is soft. No need in it. “You looked knackered at dinner. I thought a massage would help.” He thinks that’s a nice way of saying he looks like shit. He bathed though, should count for something.

He’s more than a little thankful she just wants this. All day in the sun, half a day sparring with anyone who’d dare, half a day hauling stone and lumber around to patch up Skyhold’s walls. Full of pork and potatoes and bread for supper, and he’s done in. He could get hard for her if she wanted, could make her cry out in delicious ways if she wanted. Seems she wants an easy evening.

He pulls off his shirt, steps out of his breeches and smalls. The sheets are cool on his stomach, face buried in a pillow. He tries to rest his head on his hands, but she slides his arms back to lay along side his body.

Her hands start at the small of his back, warm and slick with oil. Smells floral, softly tingles on his sallow skin. She hums while she works, her hands gliding along the lean muscles in his back. They swirl and push in rhythm; long, sweeping strokes of her palms. Short, kneading dance of her fingers over each tough bundle of muscle.

She finds knots. Some are new and unravel with just a light touch. Some are old, wound so tight that she digs into them with her knuckles until he grunts and she moves on.

The heels of her hands glide along the edges of his spine, her fingers swipe along the crest of his hips, her thumbs drag away from the base of his skull and down his shoulders. Kneading his forearms. Working his aching hands; pulling at the spaces between his knuckles, her thumbs pressing circles into the thick skin of his palms.

His mind floats in a warm puddle of nothing. He’s only aware of what her song sounds like and where her hands are. Minute-old memories of them still move over his shoulders, still warm, still tingling.

She re-positions herself to work down his legs, picking a different melody to quietly hum while she works. Her hands knead the cheeks of his ass, her thumbs slide down the fuzzy crevice between them and he rolls his hips to chase them.

The humming stops as a few quiet chuckles float above him, “Patience.”

Oiled knuckles press down the back of his thighs, thumbs over his calves. She’s rougher with her hands down his legs. Probably needs it, the time he spent dancing around the sparring ring today. Maybe he’ll feel it less tomorrow.

The warm afterglow of where her hands have been pools in the center of him. Touching him with a kindness, with care. He wants to grab for her when he feels her shift off his bed, hears her feet on the floor, afraid she’s done and leaving. She said she couldn’t stay long. Wants to take her clothes off with his fucking teeth, show her how he appreciates with his own hands, in his own way. It won’t be as soft, but it’d be with as much care.

“Turn over,” she quietly commands with a tap on his hip.

His bones are jelly but he manages. Half-hard cock bouncing on his belly as he spins over, flat on his back.

She straddles his hips, stretches forward with hands still covered in oil. Her fingers glide across the planes of his chest, through his dark hair. He watches her work. Her eyes hazy, shoulders relaxed, face in a fog, humming something slower. He pulls at her top to bring her down, wants her mouth. Hum sucked out of her lungs. His tongue slides across her lips. She works at his neck with strong fingers while he sucks on her tongue. Won’t even put her task to rest to play a bit. Dedication.

The pork and potatoes don’t seem to be setting so heavy. The day doesn’t seem to be as weary as the remembered. Hands on her hips, grinding into her through soft leather breeches. He’s got blood sitting too close to the surface of his skin. He feels the threads in the sheets under his back, feels the pores in the leather of her breeches.

She pushes away his hands when they start to work at her pants. He grumbles. He wants to be in her cunt, her ass, her mouth, in between her tits, anything, something. He doesn’t want to be lit on fire by her touch and left to burn out.

She crawls backwards, working her hands lightly along his ribs, down his stomach. She butterflies his legs around her for a spot to sit. Wet kisses up the insides of his thighs, sucking a bruise to bloom on his hipbone. She probably thinks it’s a spot no one will see. He knows they will when he’s sparring bare-chested tomorrow. People will see. People will talk. She’ll take him to task for it, he’ll remind her that she put it there. People talking will be worth it.

He  _squirms_ when she wraps her lips around the head of his cock. He doesn’t  _squirm_.

She pulls her mouth away with a wet pop, “Are you ok?”

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

“You usually don’t-”

He huffs as she squeezes her hand closed over the tip, “You usually don’t spend an eternity rubbing me down.”

“Does it feel good?” She sounds like honey, dragging her hand back down his shaft. She knows exactly what she’s fucking doing.

“Yes,” he thrusts up into her hand, trying to get her moving again. “Maker, it’s good.”

He can feel the satisfied hum in the kiss she plants on the inside of his thigh. “How many fingers?”

“Two,” He lifts his hips up, giving her a better angle to rub and push an oily finger against his tight asshole.

His exhale shudders as she slides her tongue down the underside of his cock and her finger pushes inside. It slides deeper, joined by another. Two knuckles deep, finding that little soft spot inside him and slowly circling it. Matching the rhythm of her mouth moving around his cock. 

He’s trying to make this last, trying to hold on. A few moments ago he could feel all of the skin on his body, now the only thing he feels is a growing, crackling ball of heat sitting in the cradle of his pelvis. 

He thinks he  _whines_ at some point. He doesn’t  _whine_. Feels her mouth change shape around his length, she’s grinning. Loving this more than he is. The swirling of her fingers match the the swirls of her tongue. He reaches down to grab fistfuls of her hair. She usually knocks them away, maybe she can tell he has to hold onto something.

He speeds her up, pumping into her mouth, she speeds up her fingers inside him to match. She lets him go as deep as he wants for a few strokes, before she’s gagging. She wraps a few fingers from her other hand around the base of his cock to save herself. She squeezes tight. It’s just as good.

He starts to hiss, that warm ball growing, sending tentacles of heat under his skin. He grips her hair tighter, pumps faster. She lightly presses on that little soft bump inside of him, and its only a few thrusts before he’s undone with a breathless cry. She drops her hand away from his cock, letting him finish as deep as he wants. Her nose pressed into his dark curls, his come falling down her throat.

He stays buried in her mouth for only a moment before he drops back onto his bed, panting. She slowly slides her fingers out, wipes a cord of spit from her mouth with her other hand. She takes a second to lick away a few dribbles of come from the tip of his cock. Makes him jerk. She giggles.

She sits on the edge of the bed while he catches his breath, smug grin on her flushed face. Looks good on her, he thinks. The grin and the flush, one her doing, the other, his. 

He lazily grabs for her neck to bring her in for a kiss. He can taste his salt on her tongue. She pulls away with a final chaste kiss.

“You have to go,” he reads her face. She’s not making to slide into bed with him.

“I do,” her grin falters. “I have a meeting with Josephine about a group of Antivans arriving tomorrow.” She leaves one last kiss, "Night, Sam, sleep well.”

“I don’t doubt I will,” he chuckles. “Night, Elle.”

She closes the door quietly behind her. He slips under covers and into a boneless sleep.


End file.
